


Civilized Warfare

by MarvelMonster



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Lord High Protector Megatron, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, No Autobots against Decepticons, No Cybertronian War, Slow Burn, Smut, Some dubious consent, Substance Abuse, Torture, Violence, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-26 05:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15657012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarvelMonster/pseuds/MarvelMonster
Summary: A newly crowned and unsure Optimus Prime must navigate through the political jungle that is Cybertron following the murder of his predecessor, Sentinel Prime. With the ever watchful council seemingly eager for him to misstep and a Lord High Protector who wants nothing to do with him, Orion Pax finds being Optimus Prime an unwanted burden and an unconquerable task.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone likes to play that it was a simple transition for Orion Pax the archivist to become Optimus Prime the leader. So with some minor tweaks here and there in the Transformer Universes for this AU I've played off the idea of an unwanted primacy for Orion Pax and how he became Optimus Prime the symbol of Cybertron. Yadda yadda yadda  
> Also With Lord High Protector Megatron who Optimus wants to climb like a tree. Eventually. If Megatron will stop being a giant child.  
> I'll continue to add tags as things progress.  
> This is not beta read. Yikes.

**Iacon**

 

The golden crown felt heavy on the helm of the newly crowned Prime. With jewels large and thick and protruded from the crown garishly it seemed to be meant for a slightly more robust Cybertronian than some archivist. If Orion so much as tilted his helm to any side the crown would begin to slip from its precarious placement and sag down across his optics shielding his eyes from the crowd below him—that was a kindness he was not allowed to have. It was too heavy, too large as if it would swallow him whole.

Had he been the mech they wanted him to be—this Optimus Prime—then maybe it would have fit perfectly and maybe he would have been proud to wear it for his fellow cybertronians.

But it slipped into his optics again, and Orion had to carefully lift it back into place as stealthily as he could or else he get glared at by his aide and some of the council members present.

The metal was smooth to the touch—real gold instead of the painted on glaze that was made to mimic such a precious metal—and Orion admitted that it would have been a much more beautiful crown had it been atop some other helm. Primus, any other helm! Instead, the golden metal seemed to clash terribly with his blue helm and his red chassis.

It had once looked good on Nova Prime who had commissioned it shortly after his coming as Prime; Orion had only seen videos and holograms of the holy mecha, but from what he could tell it had looked glorious upon the Prime’s helm.

When it had been placed on his helm by Alpha Trion the crowd had awed at the sight of the golden crown as if seeing it for the first time. As if they couldn’t remember Sentinel Prime having worn it every time he addressed the public or the council or made a simple walk about Iacon. As if their previous Prime had not worn it whenever he ventured out and spoke to the delegates of Vos. It was not a new novelty, but they awed over the sight anyway. They cheered and whistled and revved their engines in appreciation for their new Prime already over the mourning all of Cybertron (save Vos) did over the late Sentinel Prime.

Beautiful was the helm that carried the golden symbol of leadership—

Orion found himself disturbed over the lack of taste that the public had. Quite seriously he had to have looked ridiculous with his clashing colors and his awkward stance, but the crowd’s cheer never wavered. Instead it grew steadily into a thunderous roar of excitement, and Orion hadn’t even spoken yet. He wondered if he had been like the masses, cheering for a symbol rather than the figure who would be that symbol.

He hoped he hadn’t been, but it was most likely that he had.

He hadn’t been online for Sentinel’s coronation, but he remembered attending public addresses; one of the benefits of living in the capitol city. He remembered seeing Sentinel Prime with his helm held high and the golden crown that had looked so beautiful from afar placed snugly on his helm. The crown had looked much better upon Sentinel’s helm. His bearing had exuded confidence and power—attributes that Orion, now as Optimus, was loath to admit he had—and the people had loved him for it.

Today the people cheered for a crown, for an empty symbol, and not for the bot it was placed upon.

And oh how they cheered and shouted love for their new Prime. How they clamored for a glimpse of blue and red plating and the golden crown atop his helm that drew them all in like a beacon of light in a time of darkness. How they chanted his name.

Not Orion Pax. It was only Optimus, Optimus, _Optimus!_

He had never been this popular as Orion the archivist. The lonely librarian that filed and translated and copied works for storage or for others’ use; the mech who toiled away in a gigantic room filled to the brim with data pads as his only company. Whose idea of a good time meant debating over whether Mandious Hax was more notorious over his poetic verse or his enthralling plays (the latter if you asked Orion his opinion).

Now, as Optimus Prime, he found their attention wanting.

They were all in love with the façade that would be Optimus Prime, and not the mech who had been Orion Pax. They wanted what didn’t exist. And he would be forced to give it to them.

There was a soft touch at his arm, and Orion moved his helm carefully to direct his attention to the much smaller bot beside him.

“It’s time for you to address the crowd,” came the hushed tone of his assistant, a small mech with a nervous flutter of servos.

Orion knew he made Slipknot anxious. The small two wheeler was used to waiting and assisting savvy politicians who knew what their duties were and acted accordingly, not wayward archivists who had yet to learn even the basics of politics let alone leadership. But Orion liked Slipknot. While the mech was mostly worried about image (both his own and his new Prime’s), he still reflected great patience when dealing with Orion which was something the new Prime greatly appreciated.

“What am I to say?” Orion whispered through his lip plates, helm slowly moving back to face the crowd and the podium where Alpha Trion had stepped aside looking over at the two of them. Behind the older councilmech the crowd’s cheer had dulled but remained an ever present buzz in the background.

Slipknot cycled his intakes before announcing in hushed tones, “You are their new Prime. Their leader, their connection to Primus. Say to them what you would wish to be told. They owe their respect and their loyalty to you; you are the one who will change their lives for better or worse.”

This didn’t help Orion at all. In fact, as he took a step towards the podium, it made the first impression all the more stressful. His intakes stalled as he thought on it.

What to say to a crowd of Cybertronians whose lives and freedom and happiness depended on any decision he made? What to say to a crowd that had cheered for Primes like Sentinel and Nominus and Nova? Orion didn’t know. He couldn’t even pretend to know—Optimus Prime would have known, but there was only Orion Pax with a golden crown atop his helm.

What would he like to hear if he was the bot cheering from the crowd?

On shaky pedes he made his way to the podium while every bot’s stare was placed firmly on him and the golden crown atop his blue helm.

 

**Iacon: Celestial Spires’ Balcony**

 

“He looks ridiculous,” came the steady timber voice of the Lord High Protector that spat the words at the image of their newly crowned Prime.

This one, this mecha the Matrix had chosen less than three orbital cycles ago to lead them into a new era. The archivist with the slender frame and awkward gait. “And his twitchy aide makes the package complete.”

“Slipknot is adequate at his post,” was the reply and the other merely heaved air out of his vents loudly in a show of derision.

Lord High Protector Megatron was the muscle behind the government. Commander of Cybertron’s Military and overseer of its police force and adviser to the Prime. He was a symbol of great strength and protection. A shield against the elements. His was an example of justice and discipline.

“He is not the usual fare,” came the stoic reply of the Enforcer Captain, Prowl. “He was an archivist down in the hall of records.”

As if the Lord High Protector had not known. He knew it all—had the knowledge at the tips of his digits the second it had been announced that the matrix had chosen.

Megatron snorted spitefully, “He might as well still be an archivist for all I’m concerned. He has no idea what he’s getting into, Prowl. The Prime has no clue at the deep tar pit he’s stepped into and the target that’s now sitting atop his helm. I almost pity him.” _Almost_.

He watched the Prime move slowly towards the podium to speak—golden crown and jewels glinting in the bright light of Cybertron’s sun. His gait was slow and skiddish, and his shoulder struts were slumped while his helm never moved. Such a fierce image to behold. Megatron smirked, he was glad to be able to see it all in person even from his balcony view.

“Has Ratchet finished with Sentinel’s body?”

Prowl frowned, “He has, but requests an audience with you at the earliest convenience before any announcement is made.”

Megatron’s smirk became a grimace in an instant, “He found something?”

“He wouldn’t specify over the comm system, but said it was urgent that you both speak as soon as possible.”

Megatron’s faceplates set into a frown as he turned back towards the archivist at the podium who was now speaking with earnest. If the Lord High Protector hadn’t felt such a surge of hatred for the mech, he might have given the new Prime points for his choice of words.

“…together for an even greater Cybertron…”

Intakes cycling rapidly, Megatron sighed, “I shall see him within the cycle.”

The words were a small rumble over the roaring crowd beneath them. Megatron turned from the scene and made his way to the exit without another word to the Enforcer Captain who was left alone on the balcony. Prowl’s bright optics looked on the scene below with a curious tilt of his helm.

“…until all are one.”

The crowd below roared.

***

**Coroner’s Examination Room**

 

“Tell me he died of rust in his energon tubes or holes in his ventilation fans, Ratchet, and I’ll have them increase your credits tenfold.” Megatron’s grimace was palpable as he stalked into the coroner’s examination room. “Tell me it was natural—if preventable—and you can retire at this very moment for the rest of existence without a worry for anything.”

Ratchet’s face was set in a familiar scowl that brandished his complete lack of amusement at the Lord High Protector’s bellowing. He had heard much of it over the course of his career and would continue to hear more than he would like to in the coming future. The doctor turned up his hooked nose and crossed his arms over his chassis.

“Cause of death was a snuffed spark,” Ratchet let a beat tick by before, “a very unnatural way to offline, as you recall. So I’m afraid you’ll have to delay your petty bribes for another time. It seems that our former Prime was murdered.”

With a heavy groan Megatron placed a large servo to his faceplate and processed the oncoming ache that would be appearing at any moment. Murdered. That was just fantastic. “And you’re positive?”

A derisive snort came from the doctor, and Megatron needn’t look at him to know he was being glared at.

“If you want a second opinion, Lord Protector, please let me write up a referral for you.” Ratchet gave him no time to respond as he moved over to the covered body that was Sentinel’s and removed the insulation sheet showcasing the gray shell that was left. He then placed a magnifier over the former Prime’s opened chest plates and beckoned Megatron over.

Spark snuffing—when done perfectly—was undetectable; the bot simply seemed as though he or she had faded off while in stasis which was fairly common in older models. But such delicate work was nearly impossible to achieve without leaving some sort of trace behind. Usually there were gashes on the chest plating and dents around the spark casing where the mech had tried and most likely succeeded in smothering the spark by forcing plating open.

There had been many cases of blatant spark snuffing, one or two cases of natural offlining that had been changed to homicide, but Megatron could remember only one report of a mech actually getting away with over a dozen spark snuffing homicides before he’d slipped up and made a mistake. He’d been a medibot with extensive knowledge of viruses that accessed ports and could override locking protocols that were in place during stasis, allowing him to access a Cybertronians’ spark and snuff it without any struggle at all. It had been a case that went on for over a vorn before the mech had finally been caught trying it out at a local hospital. One of the nurses had caught him in the act.

“You still can’t expect me to believe that these small nicks are—.”

“New and placed just prior to death,” Ratchet huffed. His optic ridge raised in challenge.

“He could just as well have been,” Megatron paused, struggling for something, something that wouldn’t give him a processor ache and a long investigation over a mech he hadn’t really liked anyway, “entertaining someone and that had caused him to have a spark failure. You know how old mecha can get in the berth—sloppy and unable to handle the excess charge. His berth partner could have easily have slipped out and left none the wiser!” He was all but shouting now. Pacing back and forth in the medbay with his arms crossed behind his back strut.

Ratchet didn’t even shutter his optics at the aggressive display. “No post-mortem energy pulse that would be found through his circuits if he had offlined after a vigorous round of interfacing.” Ratchet made his way around the table, pulling the insulation sheet over the dead prime. “This isn’t my first autopsy, and while some mecha lose their touch after centuries of being in their position, I’m not one of them.”

Megatron recognized the jab and rumbled over it before conceding that trying to best a bot with as much snark as Ratchet was too time consuming to be worth it in the end. He rubbed a servo over his face plates.

“Are you prepared to make a statement in front of the council and,” Megatron frowned and grimaced, “the new Prime?”

He nearly spat out the title. The mech he would be serving with, the mech he would have to advise—he hated him already. Too gangly and awkward to ever be of any real use. Like holding the hand of a sparkling that was just learning to stabilize its pedes. Useless.

“Of course,” Ratchet said with a nod of his orange and white helm. “You know I don’t intimidate easily.”

Megatron humphed loudly before making his way to the exit, “Good.” And then he was gone.

***

**Celestial Towers: Office of the Prime**

 

It was larger than any hab-suite that he had seen or even owned prior to being Prime—his new office. Of course, now that he was Optimus Prime he lived in Celestial Spiral where he was given a hab-suite at the top floor (the whole floor). Orion couldn’t help but miss the spacious work space that had been the Iacon Hall of Records. There he could become lost in the archives, disappearing from sight when he wanted to.

And while his office as Prime was large and spacious, it left him vulnerable to anyone that simply wanted to find him. Here he was everybot! Orion Pax the pretender. The liar! Pull the matrix from his chest and fling the crown from atop his helm.

At the thought his chassis pulsed with heat and Orion reached up to give the plating a rub at the uncomfortable sensation. He probably shouldn’t be thinking things such as that. It was all done. There was no going back.

His chest pulsed again and he rubbed at the plates harder.

Orion sat awkwardly behind a rich iron and gold desk—real gold, again, like the crown that he had tossed aside once he was in the safety of his office—and drummed his digits across the cool metal. He was unsure of what to do. After the coronation and his speech that Slipknot had gushed over—one of the few things he’d gotten right it seemed—his aide had led him to his office and moved to the adjoining room where he would filter all calls and messengers asking after him.

Digits drummed softly over his desk while optics scarcely gazed at the data pads that were there for his signature. He had tried reading over them, but it was mostly political jargon that he could barely understand; he was hesitant to put his name on them all the same. He’d asked Slipknot what some of the wording meant, but the mech refused to look over the data pads with him as he was not the Prime and therefore could not set optics upon them.

Orion didn’t understand the big deal behind it all. And when he’d asked who he could seek help from to decipher the obvious political code mashed about in the document, Slipknot had simply informed him just to sign them and not worry over them again. There would be plenty more data pads that needed his signature after these.

Still Orion hadn’t signed them.

He was well read and _t_ _echnically_ knew the meanings of all the words on the documents, but the way they had been placed left him confused and the double wording in some areas made his processor wonder just exactly what was being said and what was being implied and then what was actually being done. True Iaconian, which was outdated and hadn’t been spoken in over five thousand vorns, was a mesh of literal and figurative meanings that made one word able to mean both figurative and literal, literal alone, just figurative, or give it a metaphorical meaning that could be either be taken into account or not. It was a very messy pile of documents that were all written up in true Iaconian—Orion cringed at them.

He couldn’t put his insignia on any of the documents without having a wave of guilt crash through his processor and leave him deleting the insignia and shoving the data pads with the important documents in his desk where he didn’t have to look at them. If he didn’t see them, then they obviously weren’t there, right?

Orion felt a processor ache coming on and cradled his helm in his servos and tried to relax his taut cables.

His optics began to shutter when he heard a commotion just outside his office door.

“Well, are you going to go get your Prime or am I going to have to break down his office door and drag him out here in the hallway?!”

Orion bolted up at the harsh growl that echoed through thick metal walls. The voice was familiar. Megatron, the Lord High Protector, was a very well-known and well liked mech, but Orion had only ever heard his charismatic speeches and his charming words, not this thunderous burst of noise that seemed to make the walls shake in dread. A cold chunk fell into his fuel tanks at the thought of leaving the safety of his office, but he steeled himself and headed towards the sliding door.

Orion didn’t hear Slipknot’s reply, too busy moving across the room to his office and palming the key pad to allow him access to the outside.

“You tell that low-grade archivist that I am not to be kept waiting; I am not one of his subordinates, and I am not here for idle chit chat. Do you understand me, two wheeler?”

Towering over the petite and shaking form of Slipknot was a mech Orion had once thought of as ruggedly handsome in a solemn sort of way and outrageously charming. Large shoulder pads were arched high and black servos were clenched tightly as a sneer was deepening on the Lord High Protector’s face plate when Orion finally got to the scene.

“Prime, sir,” Slipknot squeaked out, “The Lord High Protector wishes an audience with you immediately.”

Megatron’s sneer only grew as he straightened his back strut and turned his attention towards his new colleague. Grey plating with black joints and red hints scattered about his plating gleamed viciously as the owner of said plating stalked closer; a shadow of the giant forming on Orion.

Orion dipped his helm awkwardly in a show of respect that he probably shouldn’t have given anyway if Slipknot’s quick intake was to go by.

“Megatron,” he began, uncomfortable with the amount of informality that the designation seemed to stir, “what can I help you with?” How did the Prime address his Lord High Protector? Orion filed the thought away with every intention of asking Slipknot later.

The Lord High Protector snarled like that of a cyberwolf trapped within the electrified cages that was part of the museum upstate. Lip plating pulled back, dermas barred and grinding together. “Prime,” he spat the word like the deadliest of curses, “the council is meeting and your presence and mine is requested; important matters are to be discussed.”

“So soon?” He asked, “And without a cycle’s notice?”

Megatron’s opinion of him seemed to drop even lower if his sneer and glare combination were anything to go by. “It is of urgent matters.”

Orion nodded, “Yes, of course.” He turned to Slipknot, “I will return shortly.” The new Prime barely heard the “Don’t count on it.” from Megatron before the Lord High Protector turned and marched off leaving Orion to hurry to catch up.

The Lord High Protector was a large mech towering over all others with little effort. Orion had once thought it was endearing and attractive, but being so close to the mech now and feeling the menacing attitude coming off of him via his magnetic field made the attraction die quickly and with little remorse. The charisma that was often seen in his many speeches and interviews was gone and replaced with a sour disposition and a sneer in Orion’s direction.

Orion felt it safe to assume that his Lord High Protector hated him with such a burning passion that it defied all the logic that stated that they had never spoken a single word to each other.

They didn’t walk side by side—they weren’t partners, and Orion guessed that Megatron didn’t see them as equals either; Orion followed behind the Lord High Protector just a step or two away but not close enough to be directly on the heels of his pedes. A misstep he was sure Slipknot would have pointed out had he followed been following them.

“What is the nature of this council meeting, Megatron?” Orion maneuvered himself at Megatron’s side, ignoring the glower given to him by his colleague.

They arrived at a set of sliding doors which opened with a brief hiss of air once Megatron punched in the code. He stalked past Orion, turning only slightly to answer his inquiry.

“The murder of the previous Prime.” And then the Lord High Protector was already through the doors and marching towards his placement, leaving Orion behind to wonder when his life had become so complicated.

 

**Council Meeting Room (Celestial Spirals)**

 

“Optimus Prime, delighted that our Lord High Protector could fetch you for such an impromptu meeting. I assure you, you will be informed of all future meetings in advance so we’ll have none of this last minute panic.”

Orion turned to the brightly painted mech off to the right towards the very end of the semi-circle all of the council mecha made with an empty space for him right beside Megatron in the center. Golden optics glimmered almost as brightly as their owner’s paint job.

Orion had met them all. Twelve council mecha including himself as overseer of the council and Megatron, the Lord High Protector. The council members had been introduced to Orion once the Matrix had chosen. Each one different from the last and each with their own personal reception for their new Prime. All ranging from cold to differential to completely ecstatic.

“Council mech, Nargatron,” Orion spoke as he took his seat in the center, “that is pleasing to hear.”

He was supposed to do something now. He was supposed to initiate the meeting with some sign or verbal command, but all Orion could come out with was, “Let’s begin, I have heard some distressing news.”

Subtle glances were sent his way but none spoke up about the informal initiation.

“Optimus Prime,” came an aged voice from the far left, “It has come to our attention—although we regret it should happen on your coronation cycle of all others—that the previous Prime, Sentinel Prime, was murdered.” The oldest mecha in the room and no doubt in all of Iacon, Alpha Trion was soft spoken yet a force behind a withered frame. Orion had admired him greatly from afar but was often intimidated by the wizened optics to get too close to the mech.

Orion nodded solemnly, “Yes, I had been informed.”

“We have received confirmation from the Lord High Protector,” blue optics drifted towards heated red ones that were placed next to Orion, “that the coroner contacted him earlier this cycle, shortly after you were crowned, and was quite convinced of spark snuffing.” The femme frowned, while giving her helm a tilt. “Dreadful business, just dreadful.”

Yttrium was a beautiful femme with a strong supportive frame and impressive build. On such a thick and heavy frame, the pastel colored plating was a shock but strikingly pleasing once adjusted to.

Orion shifted in his seat unsure of what to say, “And the coroner?”

A soft voice spoke up, “That would be Medical Officer Ratchet, the chief of medicine at Iacon’s District hospital. He does work for us at times.”

Rook was a slight mech with dull grey slate plating and an almost mismatched set of upgrades. His right shoulder was bigger than his left while chassis plating didn’t seem to match up. It was very odd to see on such a political figure. Orion tried not to stare too long so as not to be rude.

“Ratchet is here to give us a confirmed statement regarding the death of our previous Prime,” Hardsling gave a humorless laugh, “so we don’t have any misunderstandings of any kind.”

Orion felt Megatron tense up beside him and had the insane urge to reach out and give the much larger mech a pat on the back strut as a sign to cheer up—but Orion couldn’t do that, and not just because the Lord High Protector seemed to hate him with a passion that burned endlessly and seemed to want to rip him apart.

They called for Ratchet who was waiting just outside a set of doors that led to a waiting room for others. If Orion had thought Megatron’s scowling was impressive, Ratchet seemed to have the Medical Officer beat. Deep scowl placed on a white face plate with a red crest arched above his optical ridges; a matching red and white paint job followed along with deep red servos that were crossed over a dirty and dented chassis.

Orion addressed the angry medic, “Ratchet, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Ratchet snorted, “Short notice for the new Prime maybe, but not for me.” Orion forced his smile to remain in place. Another bot that couldn’t stand the sight of him.

“Give us your professional statement, Medical Officer Ratchet, and then you may go back to do what you do best.” Yttrium’s soft smile never faded even after Ratchet shot her a vicious sneer. Blue optics meeting blue before Ratchet turned back to Orion.

“Sentinel was murdered in his hab-suite while he recharged on his berth. Marks along the internal spark casing are just prior to death.” Ratchet’s optics moved to Megatron’s and he raised an optical ridge, “No excess energy pulse after death in his circuits to show that the marks were from friendlier activities.”

A coarse feminine voice broke the silence that came after Ratchet’s statement. “Spark snuffing? That’s a grievous accusation; I would hope you have more proof than a few nicks along the spark chamber.”

Sidesling was a mixture of deep chrome and brilliant crimson with a slight frame that made her look frail and limp. Her voice came out croaked and coarse that was harsh on the audials and was no doubt a side effect from so many cygars and the special additives that she no doubt had in them.

Ratchet muttered something that Orion couldn’t pick up before snarling, “I would think my word as the top medical officer in my field would be enough.”

Yttrium tutted at the other femme, “Ratchet is a very good doctor, and I’m sure he’s seen this countless times before.”

Sidesling didn’t waver. “Be that as it may,” came the gritty reply, “There’s no absolute proof of this transgression, no security footage, no witnesses, and no sign of a serious struggle.” A firm line made up her lips, “What good would it be to cause Cybertron—who has just finished mourning mind you—to feel anguish and fear over a supposed murder that one medic can prove only by a few nicks on a spark chamber?”

The council room exploded with voices then.

The arguments ranged from there with Ratchet finally folding his arms across his chassis and glaring at each and every one of them including Orion. As for the new Prime, he was at a loss as to what he should say or do and felt the weight of the position of Prime drag down on his processor causing it to lag. Both sides made excellent points, and he was unsure as to how to go about deciding what to believe and what course of action to take.

“And what of panic?” Rook shifted his uneven shoulder pads and looked around at his colleagues.

Yttrium and Goldlocke—a large mech with a lavish paint job and a large smile that never reached his optics—shook their helms at once. “You talk as if the citizens of this planet are mere sparklings just into their frame set.” Yttrium smiled, “there would be no panic.”

Orion couldn’t help but disagree slightly, but, as with Megatron, he had not said a word on the matter as the council members raged on in their arguments.

“Ask the Prime,” one of them said.

“Yes, yes,” Rook said with a bit of enthusiasm.

 

And then all optics turned to him, and Orion was at a loss at what to say.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Meetings
> 
> A temper tantrum
> 
> And political plotting!

_ Two cycles before the coronation of Optimus Prime . . .  _

 

Downtown Iacon was a conveniently ignored and forgotten aspect of the glorious state that was the capital city of Cybertron. The shinning jewel of Primus had a seedy underbelly that had cast dark shadows over the rest of Iacon. Or so said the more liberal of mecha. If your asked most of the council mecha what their plans were for cleaning out Downtown Iacon they would respond with a curious tilt of their helms and the same droning answer:

‘ _Downtown Iacon is a vast and_ _multicultural_ _aspect of our shining city. What would need to be cleansed?’_

If by multicultural they meant the prostitutes that hung all over the walls of each building you walked past or the ‘special additives’ that were sold openly on the walkway. Or, as in this particular case, the dark alley ways between disgusting clubs and rundown markets that were used for only the special of meetings.

 

Darkened faceplating twisted into a vicious snarl and sharp denta bared. Bright optics were narrowed at another darkened figure.

“You promised me, you promised me he would be Prime.” A curling lilt of a distant brogue forced the words out through bared denta. “And now look what’s happened! A nobody—a pitiful excuse of a secretary now has the matrix!”

 

The other gave an unimpressed look and arched an optical ridge. “The Matrix was successfully removed and even within the case to be delivered to you and your candidate,” a pause as the other clicked digits together in obvious agitation. “There was a complication.”

 

“Obviously,” came the lilted tongue.

 

“My team didn’t anticipate the Matrix reacting as it did.” The mecha sighed despondently, “It’s never done this before; why should it start now? You know me; I’ve always delivered when it came to the Primes, but this time the Matrix . . .” a shrug of shoulder struts, “I don’t see why you’re so concerned.”

A hiss of hydraulics before a slim servo gripped at throat cabling, giving it a harsh squeeze. “Explain.”

 

The other tried for a snarl but it came out choked and pathetic. The mecha’s intakes stalled at the pressure, but he didn’t bring a servo up to push the other away. The mecha spoke out around the servo wrapped around his intake cables.

“The new Prime is a joke. An archivist whose only dabble in politics was handing out archive reports to the secretaries of secretaries of politicians. Since you can’t have who you want in office,” a smirk, “make use of what you already have.”

 

A tight squeeze that nearly crushed the sensitive cables and energon lines before the small servo returned back to its owner.

“I don’t like being disappointed nor do I approve of failure. The new Prime is naive, yes, but he’s not to be underestimated.” A slim digit tapped at rounded chin plating. “But since you’ve proven yourself useless, I’ll be forced to make do with the archivist.”

The other nodded, “Should be easy—he’s not all that familiar with politics, less so of the state the council is in and the way each member sways. Easily manipulated. Like a malleable metal waiting to be shaped and sharpened.”

 “Make no mistake, his naivety could serve him well,” the first said, “but it’s a very difficult game to play even if you’re savvy to the underlying rules. He does seem like an easy mark.”

 

The other shrugged, “Then you best mold him to your standards before someone else does.”

 

Outside the alley and towards the bright lights of the downtown state of Iacon clubs played vibrant tunes that rocked the walls while prostibots danced sensually on the walk outside trying to entice the late night crowd.

 

* * *

 

_ Lord High Commander’s Office _

 

The hallway could be seen from Megatron’s office just past the smoking remains of the door. A large black mark stained the opposite wall across the hall where the blast had ended. Staring directly at his handiwork and ignoring the other bot in the room, Megatron sat at his desk fuming.

The Lord High Protector’s temper was a well kept secret hidden in the safety of the Celestial Towers. To the people he was their beloved and charismatic Protector with witty comments and a quick smile. To those inside Celestial Towers their Lord High Protector was an arrogant glitch with a temper and in the habit of making dry comments only he found funny.

No one could accuse Megatron of being a terrible actor.

 

“I’m not quite sure I understand why you’re so upset.” Alpha Trion stood off to the side of The Lord High Protector’s office with his arms crossed behind him as he watched the other mech pace back and forth.

Megatron pulled his lip plating back into a sneer and his engine revved loudly at the other mech but said nothing. When he got like this there was almost no dealing with him. Everyone had learned that all you could do was just stay out of his way until his temper wore down and a very embarrassed Lord High Protector skulked back to his office.

 

Everyone but Alpha Trion.

 

“You’ve gotten your way, _yet again_ , Lord Protector.” Alpha Trion cocked his ancient helm to the side as if studying another life form. “What seems to be the problem?”

 

Optimus Prime was the problem—the main problem. A constant, never ending aggravation no matter that he _had_ ruled in Megatron’s favor. Just the thought of that sniveling archivist had his energon boiling and his engine revving at his uncouth way of speaking to the council and his blatant disregard for decency by calling Megatron by name and not by title as was appropriate.

 

“He called for a second opinion on the coroner report.” Megatron answered lamely. As if any other could do a better job than Ratchet.

 

“ _And_ further investigation of surrounding video cameras as well as Sentinel’s habsuite.” Alpha Trion hummed pleasantly, “A mark in your favor, might I add. Your investigation will continue unimpeded by the Council, congratulations.”

 

Megatron snarled and slammed his fist into his desk, denting the metal with a solid THWACK, “We’ve already studied all of the surrounding video cameras and they found nothing! We can’t keep backtracking. He’s making it harder to conduct an investigation.” He pulled a datapad from his subspace, “Look at these stipulations! Further medical proof provided by a second physician, video footage, _and_ ,” Megatron moved into Alpha Trion’s space and thrust the hated datapad into the much older mech’s face, “a fragging optic scan. Do you know how expensive and time consuming that process is? Not to mention that it’s fallen out of favor among the masses for at least five vorns now.”

 

Alpha Trion pushed the data pad away from his face with a sigh, “I’m well aw—.”

 

Megatron’s voice was like a sonic boom as it echoed around them, “Not to mention that it’ll take at least five full cycles to complete! Time we don’t have to be performing a test that could give us nothing.” He jabbed a digit at Alpha Trion, “You know well how unpredictable an optic scan is. It could be completely blank!”

 

Alpha Trion didn’t waver even in the shadow of the large Lord High Protector and his notorious temper. “And, yet, it could be the exact proof you need.” He watched the Lord High Protector pace the office, datapad still clenched in the military mech’s servo. “I believe you are more upset that neither you nor Ratchet thought to order such a process.”

 

Megatron’s back strut stiffened at the insinuation, and he cast a vicious glare towards the council mech.

“Because it’s expensive and unpredictable,” Megatron spat out through sharp gritted denta.

 

Ratchet, upon hearing about the stipulation hadn’t been able to stop grumbling over the unreliability in such an expensive procedure, but he hadn’t refused to do it either which said a lot.

 

“And, yet, necessary.” The older mech tsked lightly, “At times, Lord High Protector, you are your own worst enemy. I don’t understand why you’re so hostile towards our new Prime.” There was a pause and then he continued softly, as though speaking to a sparkling, “He’s not Nova Prime.”

 

Megatron flinched at the name and frowned before dropping into the chair behind his desk. His deep, red optics bore holes into his desk while his servos clenched. Sharp claws left tiny dents in the metal of his palms. The pricks of pain grounded him so that his processor wouldn’t drift off into unpleasant memories that he would have had purged by a mnemosurgeon if he was sure that it would stay secret and confidential. Or if he had been sure of a confident one that wouldn’t slip and ‘accidentally’ kill him while he was unconscious.

 

You couldn’t trust any mecha these days.

 

“Does it matter? They’re all the same.”

Alpha Trion tsked softly and waved a soft gray digit at him, “Now, you’re being unreasonable. Even more so than usual. The Prime is not your enemy. He is to be your partner.” Alpha Trion lifted his servos palm up and leveled with his chassis, “You are the left hand of Primus and he is the right.” He clasped his servos together, intertwining the digits. His voice was brittle when he spoke next, and Megatron could hear the mecha’s age in each syllable. “You work like this, Lord Protector” he pulled his servos apart, “not like this.”

 

Megatron, temper cooling, grimaced. His clawed servos relaxed from clenched fists and now awkwardly traced the dents he’d made just kliks ago. His engine, which before had been a thunderous roar, was now idling into a soft rumble. Embarrassed fury clawed at his intakes and seemed to suffocate him.

Leave it to Alpha Trion to make one of the most powerful mecha on Cybertron feel like a slagging sparkling throwing a temper tantrum.

 

The older council mech shook his helm with soft exasperation before he made his way to the hall, stepping over the remains of the smoldered door.

“I shall send for a crew to clean this,” he motioned to the debris, “mess up and to replace your door; do take care to make this one last longer than four orns.”

Alpha Trion hadn’t waited for a response as he turned the corner out of view, padding down the hall.

 

 

It wasn’t long after his door had been replaced and the debris from his earlier outburst was carted off when there was a tentative knock at the door. He had just been in the middle of ordering for surveillance footage on the video cameras surrounding the late Prime’s habsuite (a total of 23 in all) and sending a missive to Chief of Surgery Pharma when the knock caused him to jerk up from the console on his desk.

He vented heavily at the interruption before shouting, “Enter,” then going back to his console to finish typing the missive. Probably one of the cleaning bots.

The door slid back and a familiar color scheme along with a hunch of shoulder struts came into view. _Optimus Prime._ Megatron forced back a glare—Alpha Trion’s words from early echoing in his processor—and settled for a blank expression.

 

If there had been a mirror in front of him then he would have seen that his blank expression looked nearly identical to his glare.

 

“Optimus Prime,” Megatron grunted out. It was surprising that the Prime was calling on him instead of sending his aide to retrieve the Lord High Protector as was protocol. And with the two wheeler nowhere in sight, Megatron could only assume that this was to be a private discussion.

 

Optimus’ back strut jolted up, the slouch from earlier straightening out. The Prime held a smile on his face. “You can just call me—.”

“I _can_ call you Optimus Prime,” Megatron grunted out, “Just as _you_ can address me as _Lord_ Megatron.”

 

The Prime frowned and his optical ridges drew together showing his hurt expression. Did they really not teach him anything? Did they not explain to him that even the briefest show of weakness would have every political mecha falling on the Prime in a mad attempt at exploitation.

Leave it to the Prime’s aide to fall short on this.

 

“I apologize, Lord Megatron,” Prime rumbled out and his engine rumbled with embarrassment. “I fear I’ve been lax in my reading on the appropriate terminology a Prime is to use for his colleagues.”

 

Megatron rolled his optics and leaned back in his chair crossing his servos across his chassis, “Better finish up on your reading then, Optimus _Prime_. Well,” he continued, going back to his console, “Is there something I can assist you with?”

 

The Prime hesitated seeming to weigh his words before he spoke. His shoulder struts drooped again making the Prime look small and weak. It was disgusting.

“I feel as though I’ve transgressed against you, however unintentional, and I have come to right whatever wrong I’ve committed.”

 

The Lord High Protector looked up incredulous, optical ridge raised. This wasn’t happening. This was a trick. An intelligent power play by someone so naive in politics he didn’t even address others correctly, but Megatron hadn’t been sparked last orn. With the political climate more hostile than a room full of scraplets, Megatron had to watch his back more now than ever. Not with the council ever watching and always at the ready at the first sign of weakness.

Council Mecha Yttrium held the most sway at the moment with Nargatron, Goldlocke, and Rook as her main supporters while Alpha Trion and Sidesling seemed to be almost wild cards. It was always best to assume that whatever Megatron stated as fact, Yttrium and her three followers would pronounce as fiction. Of course, though no one would dare to say it aloud, Megatron was sure it was because of old Functionalist biases.

He _had_ been a miner some six million vorns ago. Lowest of the low. Not even a designation for himself other than a set of numbers to mark him from the next.

 

It was well known that Nargatron was a firm Functionalist, and he’d even been caught spouting old world propaganda whenever he felt he could get away with it. Megatron wanted to rip the arrogant mech’s face plates off and shove them up his exhaust port every time he saw that worthless scrap heap.

Council Mecha Yttrium was more reserved with her bias. Or, at least, it seemed that way, but The Lord High Protector never gave any of them an inch. Especially troublemakers and Yttrium was trouble. He’d seen it before when she disallowed work passes for the fliers of Vos, and he’d seen it again when she’d taken the youngest council mecha, Rook, under her servos and kept him close under the guise of guiding and teaching.

 

The Lord High Protector wasn’t a fool.

The political climate was too rocky, too jagged and dangerous for _this_ , whatever this was, to be anything more than a play at political gain.

 

Fine.

 

Megatron smiled warmly at the Prime—a first for both of them—and motioned for the other to sit. If Optimus Prime wanted to play politics with the Lord High Commander, then Megatron would do the same. He could be charismatic and charming when he wanted to be; if he knew it would be in his best interest. And it would be nice to have someone backing him during council meetings and what better way to get what he wanted than to play nice and pretend with Optimus Prime.

 

Maybe the little archivist wasn’t an idiot after all.

 

Orion sat opposite of Megatron and nervously fluttered with his servos while he dodged the other mech’s smile and bright stare.

This was certainly a turn for the unexpected. Going into the situation, Orion had been 80 percent sure the Lord High Protector wouldn’t let him in, and if he _did_ actually make it inside, he’d been 97 percent certain that it would only be to the tirade that he was sure he deserved for whatever transgression he’d committed.

This was a pleasant surprise.

 

Orion sat up straighter and allowed a tentative smile to cross his lips. This was good. Maybe if they got on good footing then it would be a lot less lonely here. Sure it had only been a few cycles, and of course he was surrounded by mecha willing to wait on him pede and servo, but it was only because of his position. They fawned over him from afar, but never gravitated toward him the way friends would often do.

 

Just last cycle he had asked Slipknot if the mech would like to join him for a cube in his office and go over the data pads that were piling up all still needing his insignia. The two wheeler had nearly had a spark attack and told him that as the Right Hand of Primus and as their Spiritual Leader it would be unbecoming of Slipknot to even think of such a thing.

 

And it was all because of Optimus Prime. _Optimus Prime_ was too far above Slipknot’s station that his aide felt there could never be anything friendly between them. It would only be professional.

 

Slipknot was a two wheeler and an aide; such a friendship could not exist. Or, so said Slipknot. It was a lonely feeling and a terrifying thought that others would see Orion and know, they would just _know_ , that he would forever be far out of reach.

 

“Optimus Prime has come to my office by himself,” Megatron grunted out, “to apologize for something he doesn’t even know if he’s done or not.” The Lord High Protector laughed, “If that’s not an odd sight then maybe I _am_ getting up in age.”

 

Orion hurried to explain, “I feel as though our working relation would go more smoothly if I knew the transgression I’ve done against you and apologized for them.” His fans cycled and his servos clenched each other nervously, “We will be conducting an investigation together, Lord Megatron, and in my experience those mecha on equal footing have a better time cooperating together.”

 

The Lord High Protector’s optics narrowed, “And you show up at my office without your twitchy two wheeler?”

 

“Slipknot,” Orion corrected. “But, yes. Slipknot was busy with other things, and I didn’t feel we needed a moderator between us.”

 

Megatron grinned showing off sharp denta. “Is that so? Well, Optimus Prime, I believe it is me who should offer apologies. It seems I was,” the Lord Protector paused seeming to find the right words, “overly _upset_ ,” the word was spat out, “at the passing of the late Sentinel Prime and took it out on you.”

 

Orion smiled brilliantly at this while relief washed over his backstruts and relaxed the tense coils there. “Of course, of course, Lord Megatron. I’m sure after so long working alongside Sentinel Prime it was distressing to hear of his passing.”

 

Megatron’s lips pursed, “Yes, well,” another pause, “we did work together for a long time.”

 

The Lord High Protector leaned back in his seat and folded his servos behind his helm in a casual manner all while grinning at Orion. This was the charming mech he had seen give inspiring speeches. _This_ was the mech all of Cybertron gushed over for his zeal and charisma for his station. It made Orion’s spark flutter knowing that he would now get to know such a mech and actually watch him as he worked.

 

“Well, it’s fortuitous that you’re here, Optimus Prime, as I was going to send for you anyway.” Megatron turned his console around to face Orion and showed him the missive to Pharma. “I expect Pharma will respond soon and want us there for his own autopsy.”

 

Orion frowned, “Within the cycle?”

 

Megatron rolled his optics, “Pharma will only be all too eager to go head to head with Ratchet. And he’ll want us to be there when he tries to put Ratchet in his place. He likes an audience.”

 

“Surely he wouldn’t want to purposefully—.”

 

But Megatron had waved off his words all while still keeping that charming smile across his face. “Now, while we wait, how about a cube?”

Orion could only nod.

 

 

* * *

 

_An Excerpt from Mandious Hax’s Play:_

_The Woe of Primus_

 

 

_Cont’d_

 

_Primus (voice calm and questioning): Why is it, my brother, that you have static in your optics and shoulder struts slouched and undignified? Is your life naught but delight and wonder? Are you not satisfied by that which I have given you? Answer your eldest._

 

_Unicron (defiant): You have given me naught but pain and suffering! You have given me thoughts that defy reasoning and perfection._

 

_[Unicron grabs at his helm as if in pain]_

 

_Unicron (pleading): Take them away, brother! Take away the delight and the wonder for they have condemned my processor to agony and disgrace._

 

_Primus (calm): Life is agony, brother. Yet, it is so much more._

 

_[Primus takes a hold of Unicron’s servos and pulls them from his helm]_

 

_Primus (lovingly): Have no fear, brother, I shall be with you._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Faces, New Places, surprising results!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter, but I'm going to be a bit busy the rest of this week and probably won't get the next update out as soon as I want. I also wanted to thank everyone who left me beautiful comments. And for all the kudos. Literally makes my day. Y'all are the best.

_ Polyhex Radio Station _

 

The mech swirled around in his chair dragging the microphone with him as he mixed the next beats. The headphones wrapped around his helm connected to the comm line where mecha called for advice, music requests, and just all out gossip that plagued all cities of Cybertron.

This Cycle's hot topic? Optimus Prime. Just like the last three cycles.

 

 _“_ _Did you see the broadcasts? Optimus Prime is already a legend! His words sent tingles down my backstrut!”_

 

Blaster rolled his optics, glad that his listeners couldn’t see his expression. There would most likely be many offended mecha if they could. For all that Blaster’s voice could do wonders faking interest and understanding, his expressions were an open book. He laughed easy, joked often, and didn’t hold his glossa when it came to issues he was serious about.

Except when he was getting paid to talk, of course.

 

_“Easily the best coronation speech since Zeta Prime!”_

 

The mech gushed over the comm link as Blaster switched the song from Harmonious’ _Optic Rush_ to Nightbeat’s _Military Mech_. Harmonious was the more popular musician, but Blaster felt Night Beat’s music was more original in composition. The former mech had been around so long that it seemed that all his songs bled together; Nightbeat, however, was new and fresh with sounds that made his processor whirl. He'd done an interview with the up and coming mech not but half a vorn ago and hadn't been disapointed. Nice and personable, Nightbeat was a fresh face to an old crowd and it was going to be a trip watching him rise up.

Blaster gave a laugh, “Now, I won’t offend you by asking if you’ve been around since Zeta Prime, but,” he gave a purposeful pause, “Well, have you?” And then he laughed again.

 

The mecha on the other line exploded in giggles.

 

 _“_ _No, no! But I’ve seen all of the Prime’s coronation speeches online, even the Lord High Protector’s, and Optimus Prime’s speech just brings a swirl of excitement to my spark, you know?”_

 

Another optic roll and this time he made a face to his manager that had her shaking her helm at him from the other side of the sound booth’s barrier. She was a slim mecha with a chrome paint job with streaks of black running along her sides. A cygar was burning between his lips. He could almost taste the rust additives from here. She motioned her servo signaling him to go to the next mecha on the line.

 

“I do indeed, my main mech. And I hope he lives up to expectations!” He clicked to end the comm and switched to the next caller. “We’re going to go to our next caller. Mecha, how’s it hanging?”

 

 _“_ _Yeah, I just wanted to talk about Optimus Prime—.”_

 

Blaster nearly groaned but bit his glossa when his manager shot him a glare and shook her helm slowly. She shook a digit at him.

Meta knew him too well and had the annoying habit of treating him like a sparkling. She'd been his manager for the last hundred vorns or so; she was well adept at anticipating his slag. He always hated when she watched his shows. He got away with a lot less. But Meta had known they were going to be smashed with calls all about the same slagging thing—politics.

 

Well, more specifically, Optimus Prime.

Don’t get him wrong, he’d enjoyed the Prime’s coronation speech just as much as these other mecha, but this was the third cycle with all the calls being about the same thing:

_Optimus Prime._

 

 _“_ _It’s so inspiring to me that a mech could go from being an archivist_ _to a Prime! Like, the matrix chose him out of all others. I just can’t believe—.”_

 

Blaster couldn’t take it anymore. He swirled his chair so that his back was to Meta and interrupted the mecha on the other line. “I hear you, mech!” He put a false cheer in his tone, “Well, that’s all the time we have now—.” He ignored the tapping on the barrier, “I’ve gotten the signal and it’s time for some tunes.” He pressed play on Nightbeat’s _Military Mech_. “As always give the comm line a call and send me your requests. This is Polyhex's  _The Voice._ ”

 

He chucked off the headphones and swiveled back around to the barrier where Meta was clenching her denta around her cygar. Blaster could just imagine her pede slapping against the ground as she waited for him to get out of the booth. He was tempted not to.With shuffling pedes and a grimace, Blaster left the studio where Meta was waiting with a frown wrapping around her cygar. She gave it an angry puff and blew the smoke at him in a defiant gesture. She knew he hated rust additives.

 

“I told you we’d be fielding calls like that for multiple cycles,” Meta huffed. She took the cygar from between her lips and flicked it to the ground before stomping on the lit end. “I _told_ you to be prepared.”

 

Blaster huffed, “I know, I know. I’d just rather talk about music or, if we gotta talk politics, can I at least open discussions on the council’s—.”

 

“No,” Meta cut him off, “We, _T_ _he Voice,_ don't discuss serious topics. _The Voice_ doesn’t side with any political agenda Functionist or Anti-Vocationist.”

 

He glared at her then, “Oh, come on—.”

 

She shook her helm sharply, “Either play by the rules or they’ll kick you out of this booth faster than your intakes can cycle; you feel me?”

 

Blaster bit his glossa, but he couldn’t force a smile on his face. He just nodded and headed back towards the booth where _Military Mech_ was ending and the comm line was flashing. He placed the headphones over his helm and dragged the mic closer to him.

He clicked the comm line button.

 

“You’ve got _The Voice_ here on Polyhex Radio! What’s on your mind, mecha?”

 

 _“_ _Yes, I just wanted to get your opinion on Optimus Prime’s paint job. It’s certainly not as flashy as Sentinels’ but—.”_

* * *

 

 

_ Polyhex: The Rust Bucket Bar _

 

 

_“—like Optimus Primes paint job just has a more natural feel to it, and don’t get me started on how great The Crown of Primus looked on his helm!”_

 

“Turn that slag off!”

 

There was a loud cheer of agreement before the bartender—Rusty if you could believe that was his designation—got up and shut off the radio with a huff and a rough grumble. There was a low rumble of contentment when the radio went silent before all other sounds died down leaving just the soft murmuring of conversation.

 

Down at the far end of the bar a black and white mech nursed at his high grade while spinning a top in his right servo. The top was painted a vibrant yellow to mimic rare gold and when it was spun fast enough—as was the case now—it would hover over any metal surface. With a twitch of skilled digits a mecha could even make it dance in the air.

Jazz expertly spun the top and then moved his digits quickly and skillfully making the top bob up and down and then sway around on the bar top all the while still spinning.

It was a cheap trinket; probably would have cost a mecha about two credits on the market, maybe four if you wanted a bigger one with a more magnetic push. To Jazz who had to scrimp and salvage any and all credits he had, it had been the most expensive luxury he’d ever thought to buy—besides highgrade, of course, but fuel was fuel did it really matter if said fuel charged him up or not?

 

The top danced, bobbing this way and that as Jazz flicked his digits along while he sipped at his highgrade. There was a pleasant buzz tingling his systems. It made the aches in his joints from a build up of dust slip away from him. It made the worries over his next meal seem like a far away problem.

 

The stool beside him was pulled out, and Jazz heard someone sit next to him. His blue visor peeked to his right to see a dark badly painted mech with thick armor covering his chassis. Jazz let his visor fall to the mech’s pedes and found them armored as well. He took a quick glance at the mech’s chassis again looking for a military badge.

There on the mech’s chassis right across where his spark would be underneath all that metal was a haphazard excuse of a military badge. Jazz wondered if the mech had ever even seen a badge or if he’d just guessed at what a military badge was supposed to look like and thrown it together. Someone was trying too hard to look  _not_ like themselves tonight. The added armor was cheap and unevenly weighed, the paint job looked rushed and was purposefully painted a dark swampy green with splashes of brown. Dim and unappealing. Easily glanced over.

Well, except Jazz. Even while pleasantly charged he still saw too much. Curse of being on the opposite side of the law. If you didn't notice things then you got caught, and if you got caught you couldn't work to feed yourself.  Jazz hadn't gotten this far in his life of crime by being sloppy. 

He turned back to his top that was beginning to slow and gave it another quick spin. His buzz was starting to wane and though his HUD told him his fuel tanks were sufficiently leveled, he still couldn't help but want another if only to splurge again like he had with the spinning top. It had made him feel like a king bartering for it. He could count on one servo the amount of possessions he owned. Jazz couldn't keep much; a mech on the move had to be able to drop everything. If it wasn't magnetized to him or fitted deep in his subspace, he didn't keep it. 

It was better that way.

He downed the rest of his high grade and grabbed the spinning top before flicking it into his subspace where it nestled between an old, worn out data pad and a small holo-vid that he hadn't so much touched in the last hundred vorns or so. Hopping down from his stool and moving to towards the exit eager to find his next score he was stopped by a voice.

 

“Heard you were lookin’ for work.” The voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to stop Jazz and gain his attention.

 

Jazz half turned with his visor bright and intrigued, “Always lookin’ for more credits.” He hummed thoughtfully and tilted his helm to the side, “You lookin’ to spare some?”

 

The other mech didn’t turn to acknowledge him. He kept his helm low and his face well hidden in the dim lighting of the bar. “Always got credits to spare for honest work.”

 

Jazz chuffed and crossed his arms across his chassis, “Honest work?”

 

The other mech shrugged, “Not so honest, maybe, but good enough work for a scrap like you.”

 

The words held no bite just stating a fact. Jazz didn’t take it personally. He was indeed a scrap and a slagger and a fragging aft. He was the slag heap that had just pick-pocketed your subspace. The fragger who sold you a broken comm relay. Just words. Once you hear something enough you start to not take it so personally. He was a dirty scrap, but he wasn’t a lazy dirty scrap. And when you weren't a lazy scrap you were often pegged for jobs that no other wanted to do or even could do.

 

Jazz grinned, flashing white denta, “What’s the job?”

 

The mech shook his helm, still not looking up from the bar. “Not here.” He reached into his subspace and pulled out a data pad and, still without looking up, thrust it in Jazz’s direction. “Go to Iacon, read the instructions, do the job.”

 

Jazz’s grin melted into a considering frown, “And the credits?”

 

The mech shook his helm, “ ‘s all in the pad.” And then he lifted his arm and called for a high grade ignoring Jazz completely.

 

Jazz tucked the pad away into his subspace and headed out of the bar wishing he had enough credits to buy another high grade; he was pretty slagging sure he was going to need one. He was just wondering if he should take a shuttle to Iacon now or if he should find a nice alley to recharge in when he saw a crowd gathered around one of the large Video Comms hanging on the outside of a market building. He came up behind the crowd and turned his attention to the video comm.

 

_Iacon News Alert!!_

 

_“This is Ore with an Iacon News Alert!” A brilliant green and blue femme with a high crown of gems adorning her helm and sparkling blue optics._

 

_“And this is Flux,” A gold and black mech smiled sharply at the camera. He turned to his companion. “Iacon News Station has just received a special emergency report.”_

 

_Ore nodded, “Yes, Flux, just kliks ago we’ve gotten the report that our previous Prime, Sentinel Prime, was actually the victim of a gruesome murder.”_

 

_Flux’s expression was solemn, “That’s right. Our source, who wishes to remain anonymous, has informed Iacon News Station that as we speak Lord Prime and  The Lord High Protector are at Iacon Medical Hospital getting a second opinion on the coroner’s report.”_

_“The first report was done by Chief of Medicine Ratchet,” Ore said and a picture of Ratchet flashed beside her helm. “Our source has given us his medical report on Sentinel Prime and the results are horrifying.”_

_Flux shook his helm sadly, “It seems as though our late Prime suffered from a snuffed spark.”_

_"How positive are we that this medical report is accurate?” Ore glanced at Flux. “It’s well known that Ratchet is getting on in age having been sparked well before Nova Prime’s coronation.”_

_Flux rubbed at his chin guard, “That is true, Ore. Chief of Medicine Ratchet doesn’t perform operations or even see patients anymore, but he does have millions of vorns of experience. It would be safe to assume that this is a delicate situation and that the second opinion is just a formality.”_

_Ore nodded, “Saddening but true, and we can all hope for justice for our fallen Sentinel Prime." She sat up straighter and looked dead on at the camera, "But all of Cybertron can be assured that Iacon News will be here with you for every news update.”_

 

_“This is Flux—.”_

 

_“And Ore—.”_

 

_And together they said, “Signing off.”_

 

 


End file.
